The Death Metal in the Doctor
by Jest'lyn Tal
Summary: The discovery of two bodies, buried 12 years ago in a suburban neighborhood, leads Booth and Brennan to some uncomfortable discoveries when it comes to their imprinted duckling.
1. Chapter 1

Standard Disclaimers: I don't own Bones or anything related to it. This is a new thing for me, rattling off a plot quickly and in relatively short drabbles as a way to keep energy (though, yes, I do have a plot). I'm withholding judgment for the time being! Let me know what you think!

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**The Death Metal in the Doctor**

Booth hated days like this. Days where the A/C was strained and the interview room became just hot enough to coax individual drops of sweat to tickle down between his shoulder blades. It was ridiculous that in a Federal building there couldn't be some sort of better control on this sort of thing. How hard was it to get reliable A/C going through the floor, anyway?

Still, if Booth found the interview room uncomfortable, their suspect had to find it even more so.

Special Agent Seely Booth had brought Mark Penn to be questioned as the chief suspect in an ongoing murder investigation. Only a few days earlier, the bodies of two individuals had been found buried beneath a fallen tree house on Penn's land. While the squints, or specialists, at the Jeffersonian had dated the remains, this preliminary interview was all they had to go on so far.

"So, let's go over this again," Booth let the file folder drop from his hand back onto the desk.

"Oh, god…" Mark muttered and covered his face briefly. He certainly didn't look the part of a cold-blooded killer, though Booth put little stock in such things. Killers came in all shapes and sizes. Mark was in his early thirties, brown hair thinning a little and beard hiding a weak chin. It was the way his hands were shaking, the pleading look to his eyes and submissive slump to his shoulders that meant more to Booth when it came to guessing at a man's ability to take another person's life.

"Because that's two bodies we pulled out of your yard, Mark," he smoothly pressed. "And you know, we still think there might be a third."

"I told you, I don't know how they got there!" Mark was earnest, quick.

"Really?" Booth smiled, "Now, you can understand how I might find that hard to believe. It's your yard and you've lived there your whole life. Stayed there through college, even. All the way right up until your mother died, isn't that right?"

"Yes, but… It's back behind the creek! You've been there, right? We've never kept it up there, it's like open land. The neighbor kids hang out there all the time," Mark nodded firmly, rapidly. Booth had indeed been to the location. He'd even overseen the first steps in the removal of the bodies, watching Bones harass the agents on site for disturbing things they shouldn't have.

"Alright. So, what can you tell me about the kids who hung out around there, then. Around twelve years ago?"

"Nothing," Mark said without thinking, and then immediately recanted at the skepticism on Booth's face. "I mean… I don't….Hey, that's about the time that little satanic freak from across the creek was hanging around. He trespassed out there all the time. My father had to chase him off once or twice!"

"Satanic freak?" Booth settled back, cocking his head to the side as he encouraged. His eyes slid to the two-way mirror and the Forensic Anthropologist that he knew was watching from behind it.

"Yeah. He… you know… wore black all the time. Ripped clothing. Didn't have any friends or anything. My dad figured he'd stolen some money from the house once." Mark warmed to his subject, "Yeah. He could totally have killed people. I think…I think he even threatened to do something to some kids that were bullying him."

"Ri-ight," Booth leaned forward to scribble something on his notepad. "This scary kid have a name or something?"

Mark gestures, "I don't remember! It was years ago. I wasn't even living at the house full time then. I just heard things. But he was living with his parents on 34 Waterford. It's right up against that creek, like our house."

"Alright, Mr. Penn. We'll look into that." Booth stood up. He'd heard enough. A disturbed teenage kid was a good a place to start as any, since his interview with Penn pretty much ruled the man out as the direct doer of the deed. Still, he'd check out this lead, then maybe bring Penn back in for questioning in a few days. Once his memory had a chance to mull a bit more.

"It's a different family in the house now," Penn said abruptly, more eager than ever to be helpful now that it looked like he was being believed. "The Sweets died about four years back. Someone else bought it."

"That's not a pr…" Booth was brought up short. He stared at Penn, "Wait, what did you say?"


	2. Chapter 2

Standard Disclaimers: I own nothing of Bones!

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Booth took out his cell phone and hit the speed dial before the door behind him had even clicked closed. Dr. Temperance Brennan was apparently likewise motivated, as she was walking in step with him within moments, the dark anonymous viewing room left behind without a second thought.

"Moreau? Yeah, I need you to dig up some information for me," the request was given crisply. Brennan, or as Booth preferred to call her, Bones, had no doubt that Agent Moreau would prove adept at his job and within the hour have a file sitting on Booth's desk with everything he could possibly want to know about Mr. and Mrs. Sweet of 34 Waterford Lane.

While she had to admit she would have preferred to have the preliminary information, the information that would answer the most pressing questions, right away, she could see the value of patience. It would be better to have the whole picture, after all, rather than get a false sense of accomplishment merely by ruling out one improbable possibility.

Improbable but not impossible.

"So, if the Satanist that Mr. Penn described turns out to be Dr. Sweets, will you be bringing him in for questioning?" She asked Booth as soon as he returned the cell phone to his belt.

He turned his head to give her a sharp, incredulous look, "What? What are you talking about? There's no way he's talking about Sweets. It's just a coincidence."

He wasn't answering her question, she noted. Of course, she was already positive that Booth would not allow his feelings of friendship with the Doctor to effect his investigation. She was just curious how Booth would approach it and whether his gut (though gut was clearly just the colloquial term for it, as insights and instincts were clearly a function of the brain) was picking up on anything that she might not have.

"It might not be," Bones pushed for accuracy, "After all, we know that Sweets did favor death metal as a teenager and, if he followed the traditional cultural garb of that sub-set, probably would have been wearing clothing that was predominantly black at that time."

Booth sighed as he pushed open the large glass doors that separated them from the lobby and the distant outside world, hand extended to catch the edge and keep it open for her. "Yeah, but can you imagine Sweets threatening to kill another kid? Come on. It's Sweets. He'd get all beaten-puppy faced and attempt to give the bullies a hug."

Bones' memory provided her with hesitation on that conclusion, however.

"_You're not going to believe me anyway. Just going to say I guessed. So have it your way, I guessed."_

Sweets' expression when he'd told her that had been disconcerting. It wasn't that he'd displayed any overt signs of anger, but the flatness of his expression had been impregnable, even though it had come without warning and seemingly without effort. Such an ability to disconnect seemed painfully unlike the warm, almost goofy optimism, she'd come to expect of the man.

It reminded her of a boy she'd met briefly while in foster care. Martin Meserve had looked just as distant, just as remote, as he talked about burning down his foster parents' house.

That striking break in what she'd come to expect from Sweets was part of the reason she'd tried to get him to stay, to explain, and had called after him more than once.

"That's possible," Bones allowed, speaking slowly as she sifted through the essentials in her mind, "But, we do know that Dr. Sweets endured abuse as a child which would have most likely left him emotionally stunted and unprepared for normal social interaction." She glanced at Booth and he met her gaze briefly. His jawline tightened and she hurried to continue, as they stepped out into the street. "Without a strong guide at such a young age to proper mores, who knows how long it might have taken him to find his place in society? If he was still searching to find what was and what was not acceptable, it may have translated to aggression."

Booth stopped short and turned to her. The rise and call of the city surrounded them, the sidewalk outside of the building relatively clear of people but the streets pumping cars along like a steady supply of blood to the brain. The scent of pretzels sold from a cart was carried from the east and just across the way glass windows reflected the images of the two partners back at them.

"Bones. Do you really think that Sweets could murder not one, but two people?" Booth asked.

She shifted her weight, uncomfortable as he demanded an opinion from her that she couldn't possibly be completely certain of, "No."

Booth nodded, "There. Good enough. Now, let's stop talking about Sweets and his horrible taste in music and get back to solving this case."

She didn't argue, content enough to leave that line of hypothesizing behind them. She was certain that the questions she had raised were valid ones, but it was approaching mere speculation on potential motives or behavioral likelihoods.

She was more comfortable dealing with facts.

Within five minutes, however, Angela called to confirm the ID on the bodies. Tracy Schmidt and Bethann Morris. Both girls who had attended the local High School.

And within thirty minutes, Agent Moreau had taken the initiative to call Booth back. He'd thought that Booth would find it very important that Mr. and Mrs. Sweets of 34 Waterford Lane had been the adopted parents of a boy named Lance.


	3. Chapter 3

Standard Disclaimers: I don't own any of this!

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Agent Seely Booth had been a fairly accomplished sniper during his time in the military. Intensive training and any number of missions had taught him a great deal about remaining unseen, the value of patience, and how to control his environment. In the end, however, it had been a marine he'd met during a joint mission who had given him the best advice.

"You choose the ground, Ranger," the man had barked, ice blue eyes holding the uncertain gaze of the still wet-behind-the-ears Booth. "Find out where you need to be to get the shot and take it. Don't let your enemy dictate that to you. Don't let anyone dictate that to you but yourself!"

The orders had steadied Booth, helped him decide the hierarchy in his own mind of how he should be approaching the mission and what it meant to take responsibility for ending a life. Of course, Booth would later learn that the Gunnery Sergeant had a reputation for being a bit of a maverick when it came to following his gut.

It remained sound advice, though. Set your own stage. Prep the ground.

It took Booth nearly fourteen hours to get the ground prepped for talking to Sweets. He pulled records, called contacts, interviewed family members. During that time, the doctor saw neither hide nor hair of Agent Booth, even though he'd stopped by the older man's office more than once.

Now the doctor stood in the interview room, somewhat awkward, as he waited for the agent. He'd been sent no case file, no clue as to what Booth might need his assistance with. The curiosity was visible on his face, amiable and easy, as Booth walked in and shut the door behind him.

"Agent Booth," Sweets greeted. "How are you today?" He looked, briefly, over Booth's shoulder as if anticipating that Brennan would be following in the man's footsteps.

"_Look, it's better if you aren't there…" Booth had argued with Brennan._

"_Why?" She'd retorted frankly._

"_Because it's Sweets," Booth had begun._

"_I fail to see how that affects matters," Brennan protested. _

"_It doesn't. I just… I want his attention focused, Bones. It's going to be a pain in the ass anyway to read him. I don't want there to be any distractions, any sort of vibe he can flip around on us. So… just stay in the viewing room, okay? You can tell me on the earwig if you want me to ask anything specific, alright?"_

_She nodded slowly. _

"Fine, Sweets. Just fine," Booth said and nodded. "Why don't you take a seat?"

"Sure!" Sweets did so without question, tucking his tie back before he put elbows on the table to lean towards Booth. "What do you got for me?"

There was silence for a few long seconds as Booth wordlessly opened up the file folder he'd brought with him. He flipped through a couple pages and began setting photos down in front of Sweets.

Tracy Schmidt, age fifteen. Blonde and blue eyed, wearing her cheerleading uniform as she beamed to the camera.

Bethann Morris, age fourteen. Dark haired, long ponytail snaking over her shoulder as she held up a trophy for the camera.

"Have you ever seen these girls before, Sweets?" Booth asked bluntly.

The smile had begun to fade from Sweets face the moment the first photo had been slid to him. Now he reached out and slowly pulled them both closer. "Uh… okay…" he shifted his weight and studied the pictures. "Do I know them," he repeated thoughtfully.

"Change in tone for anger," Bones recited silently to herself as she watched, "Hands rubbed against pants for sweaty palms, indicating increased flight or fight response. Brows raised and mouth open for confusion." It wasn't a long litany, but it was filled with physical markers of distress or guilt that she had proven, for herself, that she could mark as accurate. Of course, it had been Sweets who had showed her how to better recognize some of those emotions. As a result, she wasn't completely surprised that he displayed none of those potentially guilty characteristics. Nor confusion and it's corresponding vulnerability.

Sweets licked his lips after a moment and looked up to Booth, already shaking his head. "I can't say that I do." He settled back in his chair and gestured, "They look familiar, yes. But I can't nail down from where or when."

"Do you recognize her uniform?" Booth pointed to the blonde and the cheerleading outfit she wore. Sweets didn't follow the prompting of the Agent's fingers; he kept his eyes locked onto Booth's.

"Yes. It's the colors and design for Central High School."

"That was your High School, wasn't it Sweets?"

"I think you know it was," the doctor shifted forward again, "What's this about, Agent Booth?"

The rasp of additional photos brought from the file was unnaturally loud in the silence. Booth placed first one and then the other down.

Bethann Morrison brandishing her trophy right next to Bethann Morrison's dirt encrusted skeleton, lying fetal in newly discovered grave.

Tracy Schmidt's perfect teeth highlighted by lip gloss right next to Tracy Schmidt's perfect teeth highlighted by bare bone.

"Their bodies were found buried on the property across from your childhood home. Beneath an old tree house." Booth let that hang in the air for a moment, "Bones puts their deaths at about twelve years ago."

"I wish I could help you, Agent Booth," Sweets said, the words and tone formal. Firm. Then he looked down to the photos again. He shook his head gently, regretfully. "But I don't remember them. Not specifically at any rate."

"That's kind of funny, Sweets," Booth said grimly, "Because Mrs. Schmidt, Tracy's mother, remembers you very specifically indeed."

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Review responses to those without logged in profiles:

Cookie-Monster-Magic - Thanks for the review! Oh no, Sweets, indeed :) And I'm glad that you like the premise that Sweets might have had some darker aspects as a teen :) Hope you like the latest chapter too!

Moon Crescent Neko - Here you go! Hope this worked for you - trying to work that potential :) Though of course it's only part of Sweets' reaction ;) I'll try to keep on the ball for the rest of it too.

KJLEWIS - Thanks for taking the time to review :) Here's your update!

super ario - I'm glad that you like the story so far! And, I think that both Booth and Brennan probably feel the same way about the possibility of Sweets being a murderer - they just choose to react differently to it from different angles - Booth from faith and Bones from facts. Thanks again for giving me your feedback!


	4. Chapter 4

Standard Disclaimers: I don't own Bones! I want to apologize for the delay in posting. I had dedicated myself to just writing and posting without over thinking it – but I sort of fell flat on that. This chapter is short – but it keeps the story moving. For the record – I have what I consider to be canon evidence for the portrayal of Sweets in this - but I won't spoil things – I'll explain in the story!

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_"Not serious? What about the time you told Tracy Schmidt you'd shove her face on to the burner of the Home Economics stove? That sounds pretty serious, don't you think?"_

_"So, you went on a date with Bethann. What happened? Didn't go as you planned?"_

_"Are you familiar with a tree house on the Penn's property?"_

Sweets had to give Agent Booth credit. He did not pull punches during an interview. Even for a friend.

Or an associate at least.

Sweets walked into his office and shut the door deliberately behind him. Closed it on the whispers and sidelong looks he was getting from some of the agents who had gotten wind about this case. Closed it on a day that had included hours of questions, paperwork, and tension.

Friend, he decided and repeated it to himself to make it take root. Booth took his responsibilities too seriously, took the business of life and death too closely to heart, to falter in his duties. Friendship wouldn't make him go easier in an interrogation. In fact, it would likely make him overcompensate and become even more direct and aggressive.

If the person being interrogated was someone that Booth felt fell under his protection, it might also be even worse. He wouldn't want the case taken away from him, and would know that any sign of weakness on his part might be an excuse for that to happen.

Sweets sat down on his couch and leaned forward, placing his face in his hands.

Or, of course, it might be that the past few years had meant nothing and associate was the right term after all.

Right now, Sweets couldn't tell and he wasn't sure it mattered. He spent several minutes just gathering his thoughts, turning over the day and picking out things that seemed to have significance.

Tree house. That had to be where the bodies were found. It was likely they were in close proximity as well. The girls had been reported missing around the same time. Sweets could remember the hushed gossip in the school hallways and the assemblies where the concerned school councilor had offered to speak with anyone who was having trouble or "just wanted to talk".

Not that Sweets would have been caught dead paying attention at any of those things. He skipped them, and school, as often as he could get away with. His poor parents. Trying to deal with a teenager was a challenge for anyone. Trying to deal with one like he had been while struggling to overcome a significant age gap...

His smile was rueful and it didn't reach his eyes. But at least the thought of his parents spurred him to his feet.

There were things about his life, about his feelings and who he was that they had never understood. That, as good and kind people, they never should have had to understand. He never blamed them for that. They did their best, allowing him his freedom of expression while trying to gently but firmly curb those times when he acted out.

They never faltered. Even when some of those ways of acting out had scared them, deeply.

Good, kind people.

He crossed over to his computer desk and searched the web briefly before finding the website he wanted. His phone rung as he started entering information and he picked it up.

"Doctor Sweets," he said, voice even.

"Sweets, it's Cam," the woman's concern was evident in her tone and she continued in a rush, "I heard about today. Are you alright?"

"Dr. Saroyan," Sweets said, and continued to type one handed. His eyes didn't leave his computer screen. "Ah… well, yes. Yes, I'm alright. It wasn't exactly a fun experience, but I understand."

"Well, we're already going through procedural red tape here," there was the sound of something like a bone saw in the background. "It's very likely, given the nature of the investigation, that we won't be able to discuss anything with you for a while. But we all wanted you to know that we … are thinking of you."

Sweets paused briefly, finger hovering over the enter button. That was unexpected. Camille Saroyan, head of the Forensics Division, was a woman who expected a lot out of her people, but even more out of herself. Given how betrayed she had felt when Zach Addy had broken the law, Sweets would have thought that the mere possibility of history repeating itself would have made her distance herself immediately.

Her trust was very touching.

"Thank you, Dr. Saroyan," he said after a moment. "That means a lot to me."

"You just hang in there," Cam said firmly. "This will all be over soon."

The phone clicked as Cam hung up and the keyboard clicked as Sweets hit enter.

His reservation with Enterprise Rent-a-Car, for a mid-sized sedan and five days, was confirmed.

There were no more appointments left in the day.

He picked up his coat, headed out the door, and went home to get changed.

It would all be over soon, indeed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Standard Disclaimer**:_ I don't own Bones or any of the characters. I am makin' no money._  
**Author's Notes**: _I'm not fully thrilled with this – but I promised myself I wouldn't overthink! As a result, reviews as a gauge would be greatly appreciated. I will say that there is a specific in canon scene/image that drives this whole piece in a way that I don't feel is OOC – so those of you who are a bit confused – I hope to bring ya back around to where this scenario makes perfect sense for ya. Thanks for everyone who has stuck with me and reviewed – We're hitting home stretch here._

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The moon presided over a navy and purple sky, clouds well defined as a westward wind nipped at their heels and drove them past the tree tops. The clock had run its way well into the nighttime hours. Most houses in the neighborhood were dark, only street lights marking the way to and from home.

In the woods it was even darker but the tall figure trudging through the trees did not use a flashlight to mark either himself or his way. The ground was thick with undergrowth but the sneakers didn't falter as fallen leaves rustled.

Once he reached the old path behind the Penn house, it was easy. Even if the parade of cops, coroners and investigators hadn't beaten the vegetation back down again, stomping away years of neglect, Sweets would have remembered how it went.

He'd dreamed about it often enough.

This, in a way, was both puzzling and disturbing. It'd been so long since he'd been back that the line between the different types of memories was faded. Right now, for example, he couldn't tell if he was remembering how the path had looked all those years ago, or how it had looked in his dreams last month.

Those dreams were never good dreams.

When he'd been a child, these woods had been like a second home to him. It was telling that his first impression of them was that they were the perfect place to hide, if he'd ever needed too. They'd always seemed so big. In fact, when he was much younger, he'd even made small caches for himself where he stashed food, the occasional toy, perhaps even a blanket. Everything a kid might need to survive if the Things that hit and screamed, and hurt him, ever returned. Even though he'd eventually grown out of that urge to run as he grew up, he'd kept returning for other reasons.

And by then the caches contained other things.

The old tree house was just to his left now and he searched for the remembered outline of its frame among the trees. He couldn't find it, but a flutter of yellow crime tape marked the spot where memory had failed.

He frowned, brow furrowing.

No. It wasn't quite right.

Something didn't match.

He began to circle the marked area, gaining distance as he went, until he put the small trickle of the stream at his back. He couldn't see the crime tape anymore, but he knew it was there. He hadn't been able to see the tree house on that night either, even though it'd been a great deal brighter. A full moon, perhaps? Either way, that old oak had barred a direct view.

He pushed aside a tree branch and ducked beneath it, before coming to a stop.

He'd also been a lot colder, then, too. Chilled. That was because he'd taken off his shirt, always mindful of who did the laundry in his family and concerned that his mother should not be unduly disturbed.

He was always careful about things like that. He snuck out after they were both asleep. He didn't bring anything with him or take anything back with him to the house. Methodical. Cautious. And he'd always cleaned up afterwards too.

That was why he'd been by the stream. He'd been cleaning up.

But he'd heard a noise, hadn't he?

Sweets looked up sharply, as if the noise in his memory might be echoed now.

Someone else had been in the woods that night. And instead of running, of packing up his things and bolting, right away, he'd hesitated. And he'd been found. Found with nowhere to hide. Fight or flight.

A branch cracked in the shadows by the tree house.

Sweet's hand flew to his shoulder, rubbing unconsciously, roughly. The woods. His woods. His place. His secret. He knew what happened if he was ever caught out here. If someone told. If someone knew. He'd be taken away. He'd be locked up. He'd be a worthless freak forever and he had to stop that from happening.

His fingers clenched, bunching up fabric and digging into flesh.

"Sweets," the voice was low, demanding and stern, "What the hell are you doing out here?" A shadow, square shouldered and cautious, detached itself from those by the old oak.

Sweets smiled, the convulsive motion small and skewed.

"Agent Booth," he called calmly.

The FBI agent stepped into the light. "You can't be out here, Sweets. You're a suspect in a murder and this is the crime scene." He had hoped he'd be wrong about where the doctor had wandered off to. Hoped that there'd been some mistake when he'd been informed about the car rental charge on Sweets' credit card. One hand lingered near his hip and the holster beneath his jacket while dark eyes scanned the psychologist's face for answers.

"I know, but I needed to remember," Sweets explained.

"Remember what?" Booth almost relaxed slightly.

Sweets held up his hands, white in the moonlight, to the FBI agent standing a few feet away. "Exactly when I'd washed all the blood off my hands."


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I neither own Bones, nor any sort of medical or anthropological degree. Winging the wounds, everyone! My apologies if it's too far off of reality. Let me know! As for the small chapter - hopefully getting this out will spur me to update quick. It's been hanging on my comp for months!

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Dr. Temperance Brennan didn't consider herself to be an impatient woman. She was well aware that events tended to occur within the constraints of certain influences, and that there was little that could be done to affect that if those constraints weren't under your control. For example, no amount of worry or action could make the morning come any sooner or the prevent rain from falling.

However, while she knew that going to the Jeffersonian to search for more clues in the Morrison-Schmidt case would not actually make time pass more quickly while she waited for Booth to call her, it was at least something productive she could do with herself in the meantime.

The fact that she was awake and needed to be productive at this hour had to do with the fact that Booth had called her earlier. He'd let her know that he was tracking down Sweets, who'd left town in a rented car. He'd claimed there was no time to pick her up given the lead that the Psychiatrist had but that he'd call and keep her updated.

She could accept this, even though she was somewhat annoyed that she was being left behind. That annoyance found an outlet in her work, and time passed.

"Greenstick fracture of the right radius, no remodeling," she noted into a small tape recorder. "Fractures to the cervical vertebrae, as noted previously in detail, remain the most likely cause of death." It was the same for the other victim as well. Both girls showed signs of being beaten before having their necks brutally broken.

The shrill jangle of her cell phone called Bones out of any further musings. She peeled off her medical gloves and quickly answered, "Booth?"

"Yeah, it's me Bones," the hum of a car engine in the background was somewhat reassuring.

"So, what happened? Did you find Dr. Sweets?" Brennan began walking towards her office.

"I found him," Booth sounded grim. "I'm bringing him back to headquarters now."

The implications were there but Brennan found herself hesitant to draw conclusions from them in the form of a statement, "Given that it's very early in the morning and you aren't dropping him off at home instead, I take it that something happened?"

"You could say that," Booth replied. There was a beat of silence and an exhalation that spoke eloquently in the place of words. "Look, Sweets wants to know if you'll ask Angela if she'll look after his cat for a couple days."

Brennan had not known that Sweets had even owned a cat, though in retrospect she wasn't entirely surprised. "I can do that," she said. She stopped in the middle of her office and asked the question that needed to be voiced, despite the fact that it was almost painfully obvious. "Booth, why does the cat need to be taken care of?"

"Because there's a good chance he's going to get locked up tonight," Booth said flatly. "Look, I got to go. Meet me at the office in thirty minutes."

Brennan was already grabbing her coat, "I'll be there."


	7. Chapter 7

Standard Disclaimer: I don't own any of this.

Author's Note: First thing's first. I want to apologize for how late this chapter is coming. And, considering how long it's been, I want to apologize for what I suspect is going to be a let down. You see, it's been almost two years since I've seen Bones and this plot was always going to be centered around one single reveal. My increasing certainty that I didn't have the "voice of the characters" anymore, and that I had a LOT of work to do before I could make that reveal pay off has been what's kept me from writing. But, by now, I'm pretty sure it'll be another two years before I watch Bones again and… I figure that there are at least a few of you that would rather have the story closed – even if it's sub-par – than have it linger open. So – I'm sorry if these last two chapters are disappointing. Hopefully it's at least a sense of closure for you. Thank you – ALL of you – for reading. Again – I'm sorry I couldn't meet your expectations.

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The cup was the disposable kind, the type where the waxed paper occasionally leaked and did little to protect the drinker's hand from the heat of fresh coffee. Booth set it down on the table and slid it half-way across to Sweets.

The psychologist did not reach for it.

Bones looked from her partner to Sweets and then back again. She was fairly certain Booth was unhappy, if not actually very upset. To his credit though, she could find little evidence of anything other than determination and professionalism on his face. Still, he hadn't spoken a word to her since they'd met up in the hall to enter the interrogation room together. That wasn't like him.

The situation was admittedly difficult. She found it difficult as well. She was anxious, suspicious, and to some degree worried about Dr. Sweets. She didn't want him to be involved in this murder, but the evidence could not be ignored. She looked at him and her brow furrowed. He wasn't helping the situation, either. The fact that he was dressed so informally and that his expression was so uncharacteristically disconnected made him seem even younger than his years.

Almost as young as Zach Addy had looked when he'd blithely confessed to murder.

"Sweets," Booth began as he sat down.

The psychologist continued to look at a point on the table just a few inches beyond his hands.

"Sweets," Booth repeated, louder.

"Oh, sorry, Agent Booth," Sweets looked up and his lips twitched slightly in a would-be apologetic smile. "I was lost in thought."

"Yeah. I could tell. Those thoughts happen to be about the night that Bethann Morris and Tracy Schmidt were killed?" Booth flipped the case file in front of him open but didn't look down at it. Beyond the one-way glass the recording equipment was whirring.

Sweets straightened up, "Yes."

"Tell me about it."

Sweets gestured with one hand, dragging the edge of his palm against the table as he did so. "It was late. Probably between 2:30 and 2:45. I used to spend time in the woods at night. It helped me clear my mind and think. I had just finished cleaning up at the stream, I'd gotten myself dirty. I was heading back to the house when someone came out of the woods." He hesitated here, clipped, clinical tone faltering.

"Go on," Booth prompted.

"It was a man. He was tall. He… He asked me what I was doing out there. I told him I was just… just thinking. He laughed and…" Sweets blinked and seemed to really register Booth's gaze on him for the first time. He looked down at his hands, pauses growing more pronounced, "…said that we were alike. Then he grabbed my hand. He shook it. Then he left. I remember having to go back to the stream and wash my hands off again because they were dirty afterwards. It wasn't just dirt, it was blood too."

Silence followed his words, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner.

"That's it?" Booth finally prompted.

"Yes," Sweets said. He took a breath and raised his head, speaking firmly once more, "I can't promise he came from the direction of the tree house. But I think he did."

"What can you tell us about what he looked like?" Bones asked. The story Sweets told was almost laughable in how it raised far more questions than it answered. For some reason though, she avoided pointing that out. Something about it bothered her, making her feel more than a little uncomfortable.

"Dark hair," Sweets related promptly. "Dark eyes. He had a beard too, close-cropped. Like I said, he seemed very tall. But, I was a very short kid. He might not have been as…. Imposing….I can't remember anything more than that. I'm sorry."

"Okay," Booth said simply. He stood up with a gusty sigh. "Thanks for the information, Dr. Sweets. We'll let you know if we have any more questions."

"Wait," Bones stood up as well, surprised. "That's it?"

Sweets looked from one agent to another. He finally chimed in to cautiously agree, "That was a very short interrogation, Agent Booth. I know you have to have more questions."

"Yeah, well,"Booth shrugged. "I figure what's the point? I mean if you are content with giving us half of the story, why should we care?" He picked up the file, "You'll be going to jail for a long time, Sweets. That's where this leads. End of story."

"But I didn't kill those girls, Agent Booth!" Sweets leaned forward, a flicker of desperation finally bringing life to his expression.

"Really?" Booth asked, eyes narrowing, "Then what were you doing out there that night, Sweets?"

"I…."

"A lot of houses are built against those woods. What were you doing? Peeping in windows?"

"No, I…"

"Come on, that's what teenage boys do," Booth leaned in now, too, closing the distance between them, "Especially short, misfits who don't have any friends or who can't get a girl to take a second look at them."

"I wasn't looking into windows, Agen-," Sweets shook his head, voice gaining tension and volume.

"Yeah, maybe that wasn't enough for you," Booth interrupted him again, "Not the way you used to skulk around in the halls. You never liked being seen, did you? So maybe you didn't kill those girls, Sweets, but maybe you weren't all the way at the stream when they died. Did you watch? Did this mystery fellow invite you over to see what it looked like…?"

"No!" Sweets' shot up from his chair, sending it clattering back. His eyes were wide, palms flat on the table as if to steady himself, "Booth, I would never…"

"The hell you wouldn't! Whose blood were you washing off in the stream, Sweets?" Booth barked.

"Mine!" the psychologist snapped back, without thinking. The word hung in the air and his expression contorted. There was no way to take it back. There was nothing he could do to stop the shock flickering across Dr. Brennan's face or the tightening of Booth's jaw. He tried to regain his composure, swallowing nausea. There was nothing else he could do. "When I was younger I… had a hard time getting over the belief that I… deserved to be punished for things."

"What sort of things?" Booth asked flatly.

Sweets shook his head again, "Being clumsy, doing something stupid, screwing up. The same things that my father used to whip me for. I'd go out to the woods and …do what he would have done."

"You hurt yourself," It was Brennan, naturally, who quietly stripped all possible ambiguity from the words.

"Yeah. It was a way…" He looked up and felt his stomach clench. There might have been sympathy on Dr. Brennan's face, an understanding built from her experiences with abuse. But there was nothing in Booth's expression but an investigating agent's expectation of answers and determination to dig them out.

Associate?

Friend?

The man looking back at him right now was neither.

Sweets swallowed hard and looked down quickly. Breath. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. The point is that I was out there to take things out on myself. Not on anyone else. I did it enough to have a routine. I had bandaged myself up and cleaned off at the stream. But I remember now. When I got home after that man shook my hand, it was dirty and there were streaks of blood."

"After you got home," Booth repeated.

"Yes," Sweets said quietly and he closed his eyes. He was going to throw up. He was going to faint. Or, worse of all, he was just going to stand there until the weight of their combined stares broke him in half. A nearly imperceptible tremor ran down his arms.

The sudden scent of coffee startled him and he opened his eyes. He hadn't heard Booth move but the Agent was standing beside him now, holding out the coffee that had been sitting on the table.

"For God's sake, Sweets," Booth said curtly, "Take a drink."

Sweets reached out a hand for the cup, unsteady fingers closing around the warmth. Booth nodded in approval and clapped him on the shoulder, once, before walking back to his seat. "Good. And sit down before you fall down. We have a hell of a lot more questions to get through if we want to get you out of here tonight and back home."

Sweets looked back and forth between the uncharacteristically subdued Dr. Brennan and the now characteristically gruff Booth .

And, very slowly, he began to relax.


End file.
